


Liar Liar

by therecognitionscene



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coercion, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therecognitionscene/pseuds/therecognitionscene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty is a liar. And he destroys anything and everything that gets too close to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liar Liar

James Moriarty had always been a liar. Ever since he had been a young boy--

“Jimmy, do you know what happened to the neighbour's cat? It seems to have gone missing...”

“No, Mum, I don't know. Maybe it just wandered off,” young Jim replied, running a finger absentmindedly over the four parallel scratches running down his skinny arm.

\--Jim had lied to everyone. It had always been easy for him, as easy as breathing: his pale little face would give away no signs of his deceit, his dark eyes would remain passive and secretive, and the lies would drip from his mouth like blood.

As he grew up, growing skinnier and paler, the lies came more often than the truths.

“No, Carl, nothing's the matter. Good luck at your meet,” he mumbled as he watched the bully strut off, his tongue flicking out to lick at his cracked and swollen lip.

“No, Professor, my Mum's fine. She's just off visiting relatives.” She had left that morning, left for good, left Jim behind with his alcoholic father, but Jim brushed his worried teacher off with a small smile and those pleasant words.

“No, officer, I found him like this. Da had been depressed for awhile. Seems he just decided to end it all.” Tears were pooling in the corners of his eyes, but when the police left, taking the body with them, Jim stood in the center of the living room. And smiled.

Most of his life had been a lie. But the biggest lie James Moriarty ever told was saved for the one person on Earth who had stayed with him, the one man who had never left him and would never have left him, if life had been kind.

\- - - - - -

It was after the Fall, about a month after Sherlock Holmes had jumped and Jim had supposedly shot himself in the head on that damned roof.

Sebastian Moran, now the Most Dangerous Man in London, had fallen into a haze. Thick, dark, heavy. 

He was broken and he knew it. 

When that little fucker had killed himself, he had killed Sebastian as well. The sniper, for all his ruthlessness and savagery and sheer cruelty, had never been able to fully remove himself from all aspects of humanity, like Jim had. Not to say that the ex-colonel had qualms about murder or thievery or any of the other despicable acts he and the Magpie had gotten up to, no: Sebastian's greatest problem was his inability to remain uninvolved. 

He hadn't planned on falling in-- well, love was such a trite and pedestrian emotion, not at all strong enough to describe what the man had felt for his boss-- He hadn't planned on letting the little Irish prick worm his way into his very being. But somehow, Jim had. Jim had found a chink in the sniper's thick armor and had made himself right at home between Sebastian's ribs, becoming as much a part of the man as his heart or lungs.

So when Seb had heard that gunshot on the roof, had crept up to the top of St. Bart's as the rest of the city focused on the dead detective with the blood streaked face, it was as if a vital piece of Sebastian had been torn out. There was a gaping hole in him that throbbed painfully as he looked at the dead eyes of his boss, his lover, his Jim.

The first couple weeks had been the worst. To be honest, Seb couldn't remember much of them, just that there had been a lot of bottles and hypodermic needles and lost hours.

Slowly, though, something crawled out of the haze. It wasn't Sebastian, no: that man was dead, had died on a lonely rooftop with a hole blasted through the back of his head. The thing that emerged from the wreckage was pure hatred and raw, animalistic emotion, the very essence of id. And it wanted revenge.

It dragged Sebastian's body through the streets of London at night, a gun in each hand, taking down whoever was unlucky enough to cross his path. It was smart, though; it never allowed itself to be caught, always disappeared right before the police would show up, always acted with care and precision so that no evidence was left behind.

It hid during the day and kept itself alive on booze and the barest meals possible, never staying in one place too long. Around him, Jim's empire was collapsing in on itself, but Sebastian was gone and the new Tiger couldn't be damned.

What was the point of living without his pulse?

\- - - - - - -

Jim hadn't really killed himself, of course not. He had too much left to do, too many unfinished plans and ideas that he couldn't leave behind. All it had taken to pull off the fake-suicide was a strung-up detective and a Beretta loaded with dummy cartridges. 

He had stayed in London, living on the outskirts of the city, well underneath the radar of anyone who may have thought his little death scene was a fake. He kept tabs on the doctor, and the police inspector, and the Iceman, everyone who had been on the side of the Virgin.

But he didn't check on Sebastian.

That was, until, the city began to buzz with fear over the wave of seemingly random killings. All the victims take down from long range with high-grade weapons, all killed with one shot. All murdered by Sebastian. Jim couldn't have that. He needed London to stay quiet, heal from its recent pain so that Jim could tear it down anew. Sebastian had to be stopped.

\- - - - - - - - -

It was early morning, predawn, the small and shitty hovel of a flat gray and drab. Sebastian lay on the couch, several empty bottles of cheap vodka littering the floor around him. He was unconscious; he didn't sleep anymore, didn't rest. Couldn't, actually. He had to drown himself in liquor and hope that he would pass out. If he tried to sleep, he was just plagued with dreams about Jim. Nightmares, more like, and the images and sounds would haunt him for the rest of the day.

So there he was, sprawled over the small couch as the TV flashed bright lights across his rough face, the sound muted.

Jim wrinkled his nose at the smell and toed a pile of garbage out of his way as he stepped closer towards his ex-sniper. Breaking in had been easy enough, almost as easy as finding Sebastian's location: all it had taken were a few agents sent out into the city and a few days time.

The little criminal went to take another step and grimaced as he stepped on a Styrofoam container, the material breaking with a crunch underneath his fine leather shoe.

“Wha—Who the fuck's there...” Seb's voice was slurred as he woke, brought back from his stupor by the sound and his old military instincts. He sat up as quickly as he could, squinting to see the trespasser in the dark. Jim froze, eyes locked on the sniper's face, his own void of any expression.

It took a moment, but finally, realization dawned over the larger man. His features contorted with surprise, then rage, then something that looked suspiciously to Jim like joy, before finally settling on desperately confused. “Jim? S'that really you?”

“Hello, Sebastian,” Jim deadpanned, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“But you... Jim, I saw you, there was a goddamn fucking hole in your head. There was blood everywhere,” Sebastian shuddered visibly as his voice cracked, “and you. Were dead.”

Jim said nothing for a moment, simply stared at the slightly-gasping man in front of him. Then his entire demeanor changed. He seemed to shrink in on himself, growing weak and scared and lonely. A pale hand pulled out of his trousers and reached for Sebastian as he croaked, “Tiger. Need you.”

Sebastian was to Jim in a flash, wrapping the small criminal up in his arms with an anguished moan. The contact was like a shot of adrenaline: Jim shot through his veins like fire and warmed him up, renewed him, brought him back to life.

“Jesus, Jim, I fucking couldn't-- Without you, I just--” He choked a little as he held back a sob, and Jim buried his face into the crook of the sniper's neck. Together, they sank to the ground, still holding onto each other like their very lives depended on it.

After a moment, Jim pulled back to stare at Sebastian. His eyes were big and wet, unshed tears gathering in the corners as he brought a hand up to stroke Seb's cheek. “Sebastian, I can't-- I can't do it anymore. It's too much, too much,” he whimpered, his voice broken and small. The sniper's heart ached for his lover.

“Can't do what, Jim? What are you talking about? Tell me, let me help.”

“This, Sebastian.” Jim gestured helplessly around them. “This. Life. Living. I can't...”

Sebastian cupped the back of Jim's neck with one large hand and pressed his forehead to Jim's, breathing in the air the criminal let out. “Yes you can, Jim. We can.”

In his years of service to Jim, Sebastian had seen the criminal at his worst; he had seen the near mental-breakdowns, the days when Jim was so far gone in his own mind that Seb feared he would never be able to bring him back. The sniper knew that Jim suffered.

“No, Seb. I'm tired. I'm so tired,” Jim whispered, and somehow he seemed to grow even smaller in the sniper's arms. “Please, Seb. We need to...”

When Jim trailed off, Seb brought his free hand to the smaller man's chin, tilting his head up to force him to look at Seb's face. “Need to what, Jim?” he asked softly, staring into those too-dark eyes that he loved.

Jim was silent for a moment before he spoke again. “Sebastian, we need to end it.”

Seb froze. Jim was looking at him earnestly, with fear written in every line of his thin face, and Seb knew he was serious. “End it... Are you sure, Jim?” Sebastian had thought about this scenario before. Suicide. The two of them. Ending it all in each others arms. Bit romantic, but not how Seb ever wanted things to go. He would do it, though. He would do anything for Jim.

The small Irishman nodded slowly. “I'm sure, Seb. I can't do it anymore, but I... I don't want to go alone. I'm--” Sebastian cut him off with a small shushing noise.

“You don't need to say it, love. I understand. How do you...”

Jim pulled away for a moment to reach into the jacket of his suit. He pulled out a dark SIG pistol, the gun heavy in his hand. The two men stared at if for a moment before Sebastian spoke.

“Couldn't we just... Wait a bit longer, Jim? I just-- You just came back...”

Jim shook his head and clutched Seb's arm, fear colouring his voice. “Please, Seb. I can't wait any longer. I can't. We need to do it now. Please.”

Seb nodded and took the gun from Jim, running his eyes over the weapon. “How do you want to do it?” he asked in a quiet voice, glancing up to run his eyes over his lover's face.

“I need-- I'm scared, Sebastian,” Jim admitted, leaning in close to his sniper. He tried to talk, but failed, the words coming out as nothing more than a low groan. He took a deep breath to steady himself and tried again. “I need to know that you'll be there waiting for me.”

Sebastian swiped his tongue across his dry lips. “Ok...... Alright. I'll... I'll do it first then. I'll...” He swallowed thickly, not even bothering to try and stem the flow of tears as he looked at Jim. 

“You know I love you, Jim.”

The criminal nodded and leaned in to kiss Sebastian slowly and deeply, lingering before pulling away. He wrapped his own small hand around Seb's and brought the gun up to the sniper's temple, eyes never leaving Sebastian's. 

As the cool barrel pressed against his head, Seb began to tremble, his heart pounding in his chest. He would do this with Jim, but he was frightened, so scared of the darkness that awaited him. “You'll follow quickly, right, Jim?” he asked in a shaky, desperate voice. “You'll be right behind me?”

Jim's own voice was steady as he gave his sniper a final, small smile. 

“I'll be right behind you, Sebastian. I love you.”

The shot echoed around the small room and rang in Jim's head as the sniper's body crumpled backwards. Blood seeped out into an ever growing pool on the carpet and the floor as Jim stared down at his dead lover.

After a moment, he reached down and picked up the gun.

“Never trust a liar, Sebastian,” he said quietly as he stood up and dusted off his trousers. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile, dialing a number quickly. “Get a clean up crew into the old Montgomery flat. There's a bit of a mess that needs cleaning.”

With that, Jim slipped his phone and the gun, safety clicked back on, into his suit jacket and stepped over the prone body as he made his way out of the flat. A tuneless little whistle escaped his lips and the door closed with a dull thud.

\- - - - -

James Moriarty had always been a liar. And that never changed.


End file.
